


Blinds

by castielsweetness (dearcst)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (though inherently sexual), Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Castiel and Bees, Chef!Dean, Jogger!Castiel, M/M, Pining, Voyeurism, gardener!Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-26 04:03:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7559347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearcst/pseuds/castielsweetness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“No, but he definitely noticed you,” Hannah drank her tea, made a face, (it was cold,) and said, “I mean, who wouldn’t notice a weirdo gawking at you through the window multiple times a day?”</p><p>“Stop making it sound like I’m stalking him!” Castiel accused. “I’m not—I’m just... I'm a creep aren't I?"</p><p>“You could always ask him yourself,” Hannah suggested.</p><p>Castiel laughed. “Like hell.”</p><p>(Or in which Dean moves into Castiel's neighborhood, has really big windows he never covers up, and Castiel likes to stare at him when he goes running.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blinds

                Castiel had lived in Pontiac, Illinois for almost his entire life, and he knew everyone who lived in the neighborhood. There was Uriel, a grumpy man that weirdly had a good sense of humor who lived across the street from him. There was also Zachariah, (who was actually a pain in the ass and always tried to get Castiel to join his law firm despite Castiel insisting his law degree was just for pleasure and he was quite content with his gardens and bee farm, thank you very much,) that lived around the block. There was Michael and Raphael and Gabriel, (oh don’t get Castiel started on Gabriel,) and Hannah, (sweet girl, really,) and Hael and Anna—Oh, no. Anna moved last week.

                Which brings Castiel to his current problem: the man that moved into Anna’s old house.

                The house was exactly two-and-three-quarters blocks from Castiel’s house, on the route that Castiel jogged every morning at 7:00. It was the one with the broken mailbox, (Anna had always complained about it when she caught him in the grocery store, and Castiel hadn’t noticed a change,) and with the flickering lamp by the front door. That, too, had yet to be fixed.

                Castiel honestly hadn’t noticed the two large windows that opened up into the kitchen of the house. He had no reason to, Castiel supposed, but now he definitely did because his new neighbor was—excuse his language—hot as _fuck_. He seemed to like to cook a lot, too. So whenever Castiel jogged by one morning as he always did, he slowed (albeit not noticeably,) and stared.

                The man had freckles up and down his cheekbones and the length of his nose, and _strong_ arms. His hair was dirty-blond and spiked, his shirt was rumpled and used; he held a cup of coffee to his lips as he took a frying pan out and set it on the stove. The man’s back was towards Castiel, so it isn’t as if Castiel could be _caught_. No shame in looking, right?

                Anyway, that’s how it started.

                And Castiel may or may not have adjusted his jogging times to when he noticed Dean liked to cook breakfast.

                Or lunch.

                Or dinner.

                (Castiel had a bit of a crush.)

                But none of that’s important.

                Castiel was getting more fit, probably training to do another marathon, (because why not?), but the truth of the matter was that running gave him excuse to see Dean through the large windows. The window were always clean. Castiel had yet to find a smudge yet.

                He shook his head. Castiel was thirty-two. This was _ridiculous_.

                “Have you noticed our new neighbor?” Hannah asked him over tea one day.

                Starbucks was not his favorite tea place, but Castiel brought the cup to his lips anyway.

                “Um,” he said, “What neighbor?”

                Hannah gave him a look. “You _know_. I’ve seen you staring at him.”

                Castiel’s face flushed, but he didn’t deny it since it was true. “Do you blame me?”

                Hannah picked at the lid on her Styrofoam cup until it came off. She added another sugar packet and stirred.

                “He is aesthetically pleasing,” Hannah agreed.

                Castiel scoffed.

                “Well you don’t expect me to say he’s ‘hot’ do you?” Hannah countered, and Castiel understood she was referring to when she came out as asexual to him a few months ago.

                He shrugged, not necessarily wanting to talk more on it. Talking about it meant that it was more real. Talking about it meant he was entertaining the pale chance they’d speak. Which wouldn’t happen, obviously, since Castiel was either jogging or tending to his gardens. He didn’t have time for people, (he said to himself as he was out, having time to be with another person.)

                “Do you know his name?” Hannah prodded. “Because I do.”

                Castiel looked up too quickly, and Hannah smiled amusedly in that tight-lipped bright sort of way. His face flushed again. He hated how obvious he was, which he wasn’t because he was good at hiding his crushes. Many would disagree, though. Their opinion didn’t matter anyway.

                “Okay, tell me,” Castiel relented.

                “Dean Winchester,” Hannah smiled. “I talked to him yesterday. I just brought him a welcome-to-the-neighborhood gift.”

                Castiel fidgeted with his hands, picking up his tea and sipping at it. It was getting cold.

                “He’s the new sous chef at that really fancy restaurant. You know the one on eighty-fourth avenue that we went to when Anna got married last year? Apparently he’s _really_ good,” Hannah rambled, “I mean, he’d never admit it. He’s humble.”

                Castiel most definitely did not cling to every word. He listened casually like a normal person, maybe missing a few things because it’s not like he’s _obsessive_. That word has a negative connation—it would make him sound crazy.

                (Is there a way to make it sound normal that Castiel wanted to cling to every word?)

                “He asked about you too,” Hannah added in, feigning nonchalance. “Asked if I knew a guy with crazy dark-brown hair and big blue eyes that liked to go running.”

                Castiel choked on his tea.

                “ _What?_ ” he sputtered, “What do you mean he asked about me?”

                “I said no,” she continued, “Don’t know anyone like that.”

                Castiel knew by the higher-pitched tone of her voice that she was lying, but he couldn’t help gripping his cup a little tighter.

                “Hannah!”

                “I’m joking!” she confirmed. “I told him your name.”

                Castiel grumbled and set his cup down more forcefully than he intended.

                “No, but he definitely noticed you,” Hannah drank her tea, made a face, (it was cold,) and said, “I mean, who wouldn’t notice a weirdo gawking at you through the window multiple times a day?”

                “Stop making it sound like I’m stalking him!” Castiel accused. “I’m not—I’m just.”

                Castiel sighed and put his head in his hands. There really wasn’t any way around it, it really was just as Hannah said—Castiel basically loomed outside Dean’s window waiting for him to appear so that he might complete his (unofficial) task of counting how many freckles he has on his left shoulder. And maybe check him out, just a little, (or a lot).

                “I’m a creep aren’t I?” he mumbled.

                Hannah shrugged, and Castiel sunk down in his seat. How encouraging.

                “You could always ask him yourself,” Hannah suggested.

                Castiel laughed. “Like hell.”

                And that was that. Castiel realized he was being mildly creepy, and despite how much he wanted to entertain the idea that he could have a normal conversation with Dean, there was no escaping the fact Castiel was too awkward for that. It was better to keep his distance rather than get closer and be rejected. He stopped jogging multiple times a day _solely_ because of Dean, though if he did get too anxious he’d go out for a quick round, (pointedly not looking near Dean’s house when he passed it,) just so he didn’t come off too weird.

                He’d never met the man. Why did he care so much about what this stranger hypothetically thought of him?

                Castiel had been doing well at this whole endeavor, too, if it hadn’t been for half of his crops going bad, and Castiel had to clear out that part of his field and drop the plants dejectedly into the trashcan. There was nothing Castiel hated more than wasting his crops. He felt personally responsible, like he’d nurtured and cared for these little seeds until they were big and ready to fulfill their purpose and make others happy with good, healthy meals—and then to have all that potential wasted because of _pests_. It made Castiel’s heart hurt so much that he skipped his morning jog. All he wanted to do was hide in his room and mourn the loss.

                So it was nearly eight o’clock at night when he was done sulking and decided to run off his nerves. He tied his shoe overly aggressive, and bolted out the door, shaking his head as if the negativity would leave him like water. It was cool outside, and Castiel felt the chill and a pinch of regret for not grabbing something more than shorts and a T Shirt, but he couldn’t bring himself to worry about anything other than his wasted sweet potatoes. 

                They had so much potential.

                Castiel’s chest felt tight. He balled up his hands and ran faster. Normally, he would take it easy and slow, but Castiel was too worked up for that. He was _running_ , paying little attention to his surroundings, and honest to God, Dean Winchester would not have entered his thoughts at all if he hadn’t been standing in plain view. Half naked.

                Castiel forgot what he was even upset about for a good minute. Dean was wearing nothing but a tight pair of white boxer briefs.

                He was facing away from Castiel as he always did, cooking something. There was a bottle of wine next to him and ingredients spread out over the counter—oh who was Castiel kidding? He wasn’t paying attention to the items on Dean’s countertop, he was paying attention to his _ass_. Which was currently the only inch of skin not exposed, but was still hardly concealed.

                _God_ , his shoulders were so broad, and his back toned. His muscles rippled through his skin as he cooked—and Castiel was truly going to die young because then Dean dropped the spatula and _spread his legs as he bent to pick it up_.

                Castiel ran into a pole.

                The next thing Castiel remembered was he was on his back—his head _ached_. It hurt to move. He lifted up his arms and brought them over his face and groaned as he felt his bones protest at any attempt to sit up.

                “Are you okay?” a gruff voice asked.

                Castiel groaned again, “Fuck off,” he said, hands still covering his face. He did _not_ want to deal with small talk and shitty neighbors right now.

                The voice laughed softly, “You look like you really hit your head.”

                There were soft hands over his own and Castiel allowed his hands to be pulled away from his face. His heart stopped in his chest.

                It was _Dean_ , close-up and _touching him_. They were practically holding hands. Castiel felt like he couldn’t breathe for all new reasons.

                “Did I die?” he rasped, shutting his eyes tightly as pain shot through his head again. “I’m dead, actually, and you’re the angel to welcome me to heaven.”

                Dean laughed louder at that. Castiel could feel Dean’s hands shaking his with the effort of it.

                “I’m not an angel,” Dean laughed.

                “You’re right,” Castiel mumbled, “I’ve done so much shit, there’s no way I’m getting into heaven.”

                Dean pulled Castiel to his feet, and Castiel wobbled and fell into Dean’s chest. There were hands brushing hair out his face, helping him to his feet, and then they brushed over his forehead which _hurt_.

                “Wanna come inside?” Dean asked. Castiel stopped breathing. “I actually got some food up, if you’re hungry.”

                Yes. A thousand times, _Yes_.

                Castiel shrugged. “I guess, if it’s all right.”

                Dean gave him a smile that lit up the night better than the moon and all its stars. Castiel’s heart stopped in his chest, and his feet planted firmly as cement. Dean claimed earlier that he wasn’t an angel, but here Castiel was observing that all the facts indicated that he _was_.

                Castiel hadn’t realized before because he’d been preoccupied with pain and shock, but Dean apparently, (and disappointingly,) put some clothes on before checking on Castiel outside. He wore gray sweatpants and a loose T Shirt now, and Castiel tried not to stare too much now that he had been noticed. (Though not for the first time, according to Hannah.)

                Dean was walking around the countertop, (that Castiel considered his really good friend considering they saw each other every day,) and went through his freezer for an icepack.

                “You can go ahead and sit over there,” Dean gestured to a sofa a few feet away.

                Castiel nodded. He walked over slowly, looking around at everything in the house. It had a high ceiling, and it was well decorated. It looked similar to how Anna kept it, but all of her personal photographs and clutter was gone and hadn’t been replaced, so the walls were bare. Castiel sat down tentatively, as if he were to sit down too harshly and wake himself up from this dream.

                Dean appeared in front of him, and knelt as he held the icepack to Castiel’s forehead.

                Castiel’s face flushed, and he took the icepack form Dean’s hands to hold it himself. Their fingers brushed in the exchange, and Castiel hated himself for loving it so much. They’re near strangers, nothing more, wouldn’t ever be anything more. If anything Dean thought he was an idiot for running into a fucking _pole_.

 “Thank you,” he said.

                Dean smiled at him, setting butterflies loose in his stomach.

                “Castiel, right?”

                Castiel felt giddy to hear his name on Dean’s lips. He was really pathetic.

                Nodding, he said, “And you’re Dean.”

                Dean smiled wider. “Yeah,” he said, voice soft, “Funny how we know each other through other people despite all the time we spend staring at each other.”

                Castiel’s face turned red and he ducked his head nervously.

                “Sorry for that,” he apologized. He was so _creepy_.

                Dean laughed. “Hey it’s mutual, no gettin’ shy on me now.”

                Dean got up then, and Castiel looked up to follow his movements.

                “Y’want something to eat?” he asked, and then didn’t give Castiel a choice, “Come on.”

                Castiel followed, dropping the icepack from his head and leaving it on the counter. Dean already had the table set as if he _planned_ this, and Castiel held his hands together nervously. He’d never counted on this, never expected it. How was he supposed to act?

                Then, Dean reached up and tugged down blinds over the two large windows. Blinds Castiel never knew existed. They fell loudly, clicking all the way down, and Castiel watched with something tense in his chest. If there were blinds, why were they never pulled? Especially if Dean was deciding to walk around his house half naked? If Dean were aware Castiel watched him, (like a creep,) when he went out jogging why didn’t Dean just pull the blinds and get rid of him?

                Did Dean _like it_ when Castiel watched him?

                Dean laughed, ducked his head embarrassedly, and took a step closer to say, “Well, I ain’t subtle about it am I?”

                _Fuck_ , Castiel said that out loud didn’t he?

                Dean laughed again. “Yeah.”

                “I’ve got to stop doing that,” Castiel said breathily.

                Dean shrugged. He kept stepping closer, and closer, and closer. They were nearly chest to chest.

                “I don’t mind.”

                Castiel’s eyes were trained on the freckles across Dean’s cheekbones. They dropped to Dean’s lips, how they parted really prettily and how Dean’s tongue swept across them.

                “Am I reading this wrong?” Castiel blurted.

                Dean’s eyebrow quirked. “If you’re reading that I wanna kiss you, like, _yesterday_ , then—No. You’re not reading this wrong.”

                Castiel didn’t need further invitation. He surged forward, hands on either side of Dean’s face, and kissed him. It was slow, or at least it seemed to slow down. He’d never felt closer to anyone. Castiel took a step closer, and Dean a step back, and they fell against the wall.

                Dean huffed at the collision, and grabbed at the front of Castiel’s shirt. Castiel’s hands dropped to Dean’s shoulders and then down to his arms, unashamedly feeling them up.

                “Oh, God,” Castiel breathed dreamily, as if to himself, “You’re so _strong_.”

                And when Dean laughed, he laughed with his whole body.

                “Date me?”

                Castiel nodded eight times, just to make sure the message got across.

                (And then said, “ _Yes_ ,” twice, just in case Dean had his eyes closed.)


End file.
